


Well If I Don't Win, Imma Gonna Break Even

by norgbelulah



Series: Fires Crossover AU [3]
Category: Supernatural, White Collar
Genre: Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Pre-Threesome, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-02-14
Updated: 2011-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-15 15:52:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norgbelulah/pseuds/norgbelulah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal learns to shoot, Dean learns a little something else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Lexington, Virginia had some of the best sandwiches Dean Winchester had ever eaten in his life.  Two separate restaurants had crossed the culinary threshold to become “frigging awesome” in Dean’s book.  He was extremely ready to tuck into a roast beef and some fancy dressing situation in a third, when his phone rang loudly in the late afternoon quiet of the small town café.

Dad looked up from where he was scribbling in his journal and frowned.  “Who the hell could possibly be calling you?”

Dean looked at the caller ID.  He didn’t recognize the number, but he had given very few people his digits, so he had a short list to guess from.  Dean was sure that Pastor Jim had informed John Winchester of the existence of his friends, so that meant Dad had just plain forgotten about it, or assumed that Dean wouldn’t hold on to them long. 

He took a deep breath, said stiffly, “Excuse me for a moment,” and stood up, turning away to answer the phone.  “Yeah?”

“Dean.”  It was Neal.  But he sounded strange.  It took Dean a moment to realize what it was, but as he did, a sense of foreboding settled over him.  Neal wasn’t smiling.  The last time they had spoken over the phone, Dean could hear the con man’s infectious grin in his voice. 

“What’s wrong?”  The words tumbled from his mouth, louder than he liked, before he could stop them.  He walked further away from Dad.

“I need to learn how to shoot.  How soon can you get to Philly?”  He was walking outside, in a city.  Dean could hear the traffic and the wind blowing hard into the cell phone.

Neal, these words were coming from Neal “why do you carry a knife and gun” Caffrey.  Neal Caffrey wanted to learn to shoot.  Something was _seriously_ wrong.

Dean felt something hard sink into the pit of his stomach, something that reached a thin, scratchy hand all the way up to his throat.  He choked on it when he spoke, “Six hours.  But, I know a range in Chester County.  I would teach you in the goddamn woods, but there’s too much population out there.  It has to be a range.” 

“Fine,” Neal said briskly.  “I’ll meet you there.” 

“No, it’ll be hard to find.  And it’s going to be dark by then.  We can’t shoot after dark.”  He took a moment to formulate a plan and said, “There’s a gas station right off the Downingtown turnpike exit.  Meet me there in like five and a half hours.”  Dean glanced back at his dad, wondering what the hell he was going to say.

“All right.” 

“Neal,” Dean said before the con man could hang up, “How long do you have to work on this?” 

He finally heard Neal exhale with a smile.  He imagined it broad, dazzling, and entirely fake.  “A few days.  See you later.”

Dean flipped his phone closed with a heavy sigh and turned back to Dad.  John Winchester was looking at him, eyebrows raised.

“Who was that?”

“A friend,” Dean answered, making no move to sit back down.  “Listen, Dad, do you think you can do this job solo?  My friend is kind of having a…problem.  He needs my help.  I have to go take care of this.”

“He?”  John asked, in a strained tone of voice.  “Jim said your friend was a girl.”

Dean worked his jaw and fought the urge to tell Dad to just ask him if he had questions about his own freaking life.  Instead, he replied calmly, “I have more than one friend, Dad.  _This friend_ is a he and he asked me to help him with something.  Can you do the job solo?”

John closed the journal with a decisive snap and replied, as if Dean was crazy for even asking, “Of course, Dean.  I did this job solo for fifteen years.  I think I can take care of the ghost of a war horse by myself.”

The alleged ghost of a freaking war horse, Dean thought, but again said something else entirely.  “Fine, then.  I’m heading north.  I’ll be back in a few days.”

“I’ll probably be gone by then.”  John picked up a chip from Dean’s untouched plate and popped it into his mouth, chewing deliberately.

Dean grabbed his coat from the back of his chair and patted his jeans for his keys.  “Fine,” he repeated.  “I’ll call you.  When I’ve taken care of this.”

Dean could barely stop fidgeting under Dad’s piercing gaze and he couldn’t leave until the man had said whatever his version of goodbye would be that day.  “Taken care of what exactly?”  He asked in a low voice. 

Dean didn’t want to answer, mostly because he wasn’t exactly sure, but also because he wanted Neal’s business to stay private.  Who knew what kind of information about the con man could aid in his eventual arrest.  Dean didn’t want to be a source of any trouble for Neal and Kate.  All he wanted to do was help.

“It’s not any of your business, Dad,” he replied quietly.

John’s face grew stormy.  ”Not my business?” he repeated incredulously.  “Are these the felons you spent the night with outside Chicago last year?  I think it had better be my goddamn business what you’re getting yourself into.  Are you out of your mind, son?”

Dean felt those words like they were a blow.  “First of all,” he answered slowly, trying to stop them both from making a scene.  “You can’t be a felon unless you’re caught and convicted.  My friends are neither.  Second, the girl isn’t even involved.  And third, neither of them would ever ask me to do anything illegal.” 

Dean knew there was a possibility that someday he might offer.  And they wouldn’t be able to say no, for whatever reason.  But Dad didn’t need to know that. 

“Also,” Dean added, looking around the café and lowering his voice.  “It’s not like you and I have always followed the letter of the law, Dad.  It’s not like I don’t know how to run from the cops.  I know how to keep my nose mostly clean, and how to get out of a bad situation if I have to.  No one can prove I ever did anything for those two except pass along a message, because I didn’t and that’s the honest to God truth.  If you had asked me about it instead of going to Jim for your information, I would have told you that.”

If Dad was at all perturbed about Dean’s uncharacteristic outburst, he didn’t show it at all in either his face or the way in which he said, “Fine then.  I’ll see you in a few days.”

“Fine,” Dean repeated and walked out the door, wishing he had the balls to pick up the sandwich and take it with him.  He was really freaking hungry.

 

Five hours later, Dean pulled the Impala into the Downingtown BP.  It was a rinky-dink little place, smack in the middle of four ramps on and off of the PA turnpike.  He looked around for other cars and saw only one, a ten year old silver Lexus sedan.  Neal was leaning against the passenger side doors, watching him. 

Dean pulled up and parked alongside the vehicle.  He rolled down his window, smiled winningly, and said, “Hey, Stranger.”

Neal’s returning smile was tentative at first, making Dean more certain that something was wrong.  “Hey, yourself,” he replied and pushed off from his car, closing the space between them in two short steps.  Neal leaned into the window of the Impala and grinned at Dean wickedly.  “You here to pick me up, baby?”

Dean raised his eyebrows in response.  “I know a cheap motel around here,” he said with a smirk.  “Do you want a ride, or would you rather follow me there?”

There was only the hint of a strain in Neal’s voice as he replied, as if he were trying to speak lines he hadn’t thought of himself, “Well, since the Lexus is stolen, I should probably ditch it.  So, I guess I’ll need a ride.”  His wicked grin had fallen to a shadow of itself.

Dean knew Neal smiled without meaning it all the time, he’d seen him do it before, he knew it was the bread and butter of a great con artist.  Somehow, tonight, he couldn’t pull it off, he couldn’t maintain.  But Dean didn’t let on that he could tell how much Neal was off his game.  He only said, “So, grab your shit and get in.”

Neal took a small, black duffel bag from the passenger seat of the Lexus and dropped it to the ground.  He pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and quickly wiped down the steering wheel and every other surface on the dash and door handles.  His movements were efficient, professional, and he was scowling. 

Dean bent his arm back in a long-practiced movement to unlock the rear door.  “Throw your bag in the back,” he called to Neal.  “You’re not ready to see what I’ve got in the trunk.”

Neal’s scowl was replaced by a questioning half-smile, but he did as he was told.  As he pulled open the door and climbed inside the Impala he said, “It had better not be a dead body.  I don’t need that kind of heat.”

Dean peeled out of the gas station with a low chuckle, deciding it would be funnier if he didn’t answer.

 

Neal stayed in the car while Dean rented the room.  He tossed Neal the second key through the Impala’s open window and went in first.  He knew Neal would follow on his own time.  Maybe they were being silly, overly careful or whatever, but he did it without consulting the con-man.  Dean had caught the wariness in Neal’s expression, and he figured it would be best to just let him handle the situation how he wanted.

Dean was throwing his meager possessions into one of the dresser drawers when Neal finally entered.  He didn’t look upset now, not in the face.  But there was something behind those blue eyes that Dean couldn’t pin down.  He wished they were able to see more of each other.  He wished that he could read the subtext, that he could just know what was going through Neal’s head.

And he desperately wanted to know what the next couple days would bring.  He wasn’t sure if he was ready for it.

Neal tossed his duffel to the floor and strode across the room to reach him.  Dean could barely react, before Neal’s hand was fisted in the leather of his jacket and his name was just a hard breath on Neal’s lips.

“Dean,” he said again, and pulled their bodies together roughly.

“Neal.”  Dean tried to back up, suddenly feeling nervous and unsure.  “I don’t think I can—“

But Neal cut him off, “Please,” he whispered desperately.  And he pulled Dean flush against him, gripping the leather harder and wrapping his free arm around Dean’s shoulders.  He settled his face into the crook of Dean’s neck and just shook.  Only very slightly and quietly, but Dean could feel it in his arms and his chest and his labored breath against Dean’s skin.

Startled, Dean wrapped his arms around Neal reflexively.  “Hey, hey,” he murmured, bringing a hand lightly across Neal’s back and into his hair.

In response, he only gulped a breath in what Dean desperately hoped was not a choked back sob.

“Neal, what’s wrong,” he asked softly into the hair at his friend’s temple.  “Where’s Kate?”

Dean felt Neal stiffen as he pulled away from his embrace, eyes looking far too bright.  “Kate’s in the hospital.”

“What?”  It was the last thing he had expected to hear.

“There was,” Neal hesitated, looking for once like he had no idea what to do with his body.  His hands raised for a flash just to his hairline, then his ear, and then fell, slipping into his pockets only to come right back out a moment later.  “There was a mishap.”

At Dean’s continued look of confusion and worry, Neal looked uncomfortable.  “A job went south.  Kate was the one who took the brunt of it.  It wasn’t my choice.  She had to take the lead on this one and so she ended up catching all the fallout.”

“So you wanna learn to shoot…to get revenge? “ Dean asked, incredulous.  “That doesn’t sound like you at all.”

“No,” Neal said immediately.  “No, I…It’s just that I could have prevented it.  I was right there… in the…”  He paused for a moment and laughed hollowly.   “In the shadows.  If I’d shown my face we would have both been dead.  But…if I’d had a gun…I wouldn’t have shot them.  I wouldn’t have.  I just could have scared them, distracted them.  So she could get away.  And we would have blown town.  And that would be that.”

“How bad is it?”

“She’ll be all right in a few days.  They…beat her up pretty badly.  I called 911 and ran when I heard them coming.  Those…fucking bastards…ran too, but I couldn’t risk following them.  Peter was going to get to us by tracking them down.  It was sheer luck that he didn’t end up in that alley at the same time as the paramedics. I called a…friend…to make sure she was okay and that the plan was set.  Then I called you.” 

The look in Neal’s eyes was pleading, as if he thought that if he told Dean every detail of what had happened and what he had done, that his actions would be somehow…validated.  That they would be right.  Dean wasn’t complaining, it just seemed weird to be on the opposite side of this type of conversation.  He’d had them with Dad countless times over the years, when something dangerous or stupid happened to Sam. 

Dean realized that Neal probably had almost no time to process all this since it had happened.  It couldn’t have been more than eight hours ago and Neal had been running on nothing but adrenaline and anxiety ever since.  “Okay,” Dean replied evenly and then asked, “What’s the plan?” 

As he replied, Neal’s voice settled into a tired monotone, like it was a full on confession rather than an explanation, “We always set plans for this kind of situation before we start a job.  She’ll get well enough in the hospital, under a fresh alias or Jane Doe if she can get away with it, then she’ll skip out on the bill and meet me at JFK in four days.  Flying is way more difficult under an assumed name than it used to be, but I have a friend who can get us the IDs and tickets in time.  We’ll be in Europe this time next week, but even I don’t know exactly where.”

Dean could not help looking away at the news.  He moved past Neal and sat down in the multi-colored plastic chair at the requisite table in the corner, and told himself he had no right to be upset.  “For how long?”

“With this much heat on the right and wrong side of the law…three, four months.  At the least.”

Dean frowned.  “If you’ll be in Europe, why the rush on shooting lessons?”

Neal returned Dean’s expression with a grim seriousness that did not suit his features.  “We will be working in Europe, Dean.  This impromptu trip will put us back a little bit in funds, and we have big plans for next year.  So, no matter what my feelings on guns are, if I live this life I have to know how to use one.  It was…bravado, or naiveté or…sheer idiocy—

“All right, all right,” Dean interrupted, getting the idea.  “So you need to learn.  That’s fine.  I get it.”

Neal’s legs seemed to give from beneath him and he sat down heavily on the bed facing Dean.  His shoulders slumped and his head fell into his hands.

“I just wish,” he cried, “that it hadn’t taken something like this for me to realize.  I wish it had been me--“

Dean cut him off again.  “Neal, stop it.”

“It’s true.  Kate should have never been put in that position.  I taught her everything she knows about this life.  I should have prepared her better.  I should have been better prepared.”

Dean cast a hard look at Neal and said plainly, “Well, you weren’t.  But you’re doing something about it now, so quit whining.  Kate can take care of herself.  She’s tougher than you think.  She’ll pull out of this fine and you’ll both be more careful in the future.  There’s no sense in crying about it now.”

He picked up his keys from where he had tossed them earlier and stood, “Come on,” he ordered.

“Where are we going?”  Neal didn’t move.  He just looked at Dean, eyes wide like a lost puppy.  It made Dean’s lip curl.

“Out.  We’re not going to do ourselves any good moping around here.  It’s too early to sleep and I wouldn’t put a gun in your hands right now even to clean it.”

Neal blinked slowly at him, apparently letting the words sink in.  “Yeah,” he murmured a moment later.  “Yeah, okay.”  He ran a hand through his stress-mussed hair and settled his shoulders, as if making himself ready to get up and out of this particular mood.  Dean was all for it, but he had a strange sinking feeling about what kind of façade the con-man would use to bottle up his worry and guilt.

Neal stood up, straightened his tie, and tried to smile.  Tried, and failed miserably.  “Let’s go, then,” he said, finally able to pull his lips into the right shape.  It would have fooled a lot of people, but it didn’t fool Dean.  There was no emotion behind those intense blue eyes.  When Neal did that, that _counterfeit_ smile, his eyes looked dead.

 Dean’s fingers curled in a fist around his car keys.  He could not take another second of this act.  “That’s it.  That is fucking it.  Do not smile at me unless you fucking want to, Neal.  It’s sad as hell when you do that.”

Neal’s smile fell as his eyebrows rose in surprise.  He lifted his chin as if he were giving Dean some kind of evaluation, appraising him like a rare artifact.

When Neal didn’t actually respond to what Dean had said, he repeated, “Come on,” and turned towards the door.  Neal followed him wordlessly.

 

They drove to a local dive, complete with peeling green leather bar stools and wood paneling over all the walls.  There was a juke box tucked into the corner by the bathroom doors, but it wasn’t playing any tunes.  The murmuring of low voices and the clinking of beer bottles and cocktail glasses filled the room.

If Dean knew his own tolerance and could trust his hunch about Neal’s, he would be fine to drive back and his friend would be drunk enough to forget his troubles until the morning.

Neal shot Dean a strange look before he picked up the over-sized shot glass, stared at it intensely for about five seconds and downed it in one gulp.  He barely even made a face.

Dean downed his just as fast and chased it with a large sip of beer.  Neal watched him for a moment then turned to the bartender, a scruffy man with a noticeable beer-belly.  “Another double-shot of the same,” Neal ordered.

 “One for him too?”  The bartender replied, indicating Dean.

 “Naw, I gotta drive later,” Dean answered for himself.

The shot was promptly brought over and Neal paid the man with singles.  He took the drink in the same intensely game manner and sauntered over to the juke box, one extra dollar in his hand.  He swiftly punched through the albums, obviously looking for something specific.

Tom Petty’s “Wreck Me” began to play over the bar’s fuzzy sound system as Neal walked away from the machine.  Dean sipped his beer and watched him, hands in his pockets all casual-like, eyes carefully bored as they scanned the room. 

As he looked, Dean wondered how this man even existed.  How did he walk around, breathe, speak, eat, drink, and look like that?  Shouldn’t he be cast in marble or immortalized in song?  Dean rarely stopped long to notice the physical beauty of the world around him, but he couldn’t help being somehow captivated by Neal Caffrey. 

Neal met Dean’s eyes and he smiled, for real, as he sat down next to him at the bar.  Not as if nothing was wrong, but like he was trying not to think about it.  He said, “You’re going to have to stop eye-fucking me from across the room, or everyone in this bar is gonna think we’re gay for each other.”

Dean automatically smirked and replied, “Then I’ll have to think of some other way to keep that smile on your face.” 

It wasn’t an admission of anything, but it wasn’t a denial either.  Dean was feeling unusually ambivalent and somehow uncomfortable about that as he lifted his glass and took a long drink.

Neal must have been aware of his uncertainty because the con-man’s smile stretched lazily and his lips started mouthing the words Tom Petty was singing.  Neal’s voice came in low under the blaring speakers, but Dean was close enough that he could hear him croon, “Rescue me, should I go wrong.  If I dig too deep, if I stay too long.”

And the two of them broke loudly into the chorus of “Ohs” and “yeahs” and excellent guitar solos.  What was a juke box for, if not obnoxiously singing each and every song you play on it until the rest of the bar hates your guts?

When the song was over, Neal grabbed his beer and took a drink.  “I’m so glad I called,” he said.  “I wasn’t even thinking that…I mean… it was the best thing I could have done.”

Dean felt his mouth twist in a crooked grin.  “Thanks,” he mumbled.  For some reason, he was never quite sure how to take a compliment.

But Neal smiled and touched his arm, "I'm glad I got to see you before we had to leave."

"Yeah," Dean replied, subdued.  "Me too."

He couldn't put a finger on his disappointment at the news.  He knew Kate and Neal were _International_ art thieves.  They were always telling him about their travels and would have obviously returned to Europe at some point.  But six months seemed like a really long time.

Dean nearly jumped as Neal's hand, which he hadn't noticed was still on his arm, gave a quick squeeze.  "The mail still gets to Europe," Neal said.  "Send it to the P.O. Box.  Just like before.  It'll just take longer to reach us."

Dean met Neal's eyes and was reminded of the connection he’d felt to this man the first time they’d met.  That thread of a common past, a shared understanding.  Somehow he got the impression that Neal hated the leaving as much as Dean hated being left behind.

"Right," he replied, "same as before.  Now, let's play some pool."

Neal turned towards the table and grimaced.  "I'm not really very good."

Dean grabbed his shoulder and spun him back around on the squeaky bar stool.  "There is absolutely no way you are not excellent at this game.  Are you trying to _hustle_ me?  Me?!"

The look in Neal’s eyes was lazy and confident, and dangerous as hell.  "Wanna find out?"

 

Sober, Neal was a master at pool.  Each move he made was considered and decided on as swiftly as the strike of the cue against the cue ball.  Neal wiped the floor with Dean as one after another the balls fell into each pocket before he could even take a turn of his own.

“So I guess you’re not going to even attempt to hustle me?”  Dean asked sullenly.

Neal smiled, loosening his tie with a slow hand.  The first game was over and Neal had just finished his beer.  “I figured I wouldn’t since you already called me out on it.  Would you rather I play down to you?”

Dean rolled his eyes and grumbled, “Come on man, you’re just showing off.  At least let me get a turn in.”

“Fine,” Neal replied with a generous grin, and Dean wondered if the alcohol was getting to him yet.  They racked up the next game and began to play for real.

Dean was a much more thoughtful player than Neal.  Not that Neal didn’t think about what he was doing, but his decisions were quick, practiced, based somewhere between preternatural skill and muscle memory.  Dean preferred to make sure that out of every option, the one he was about to make was the best, would be the one he could pull off the easiest and would get him in the best position. 

Pool was probably the only thing he ever did that he was so methodical about.  He thought maybe it was because for so many years he wanted so badly to win against Dad.

Because Dean took the game so slowly, Neal started to get distracted.  He won the second game handily and did an adorable little victory dance over to the bar for two more beers.  But the third game seemed more of a challenge to him.  He worked more slowly, squinting at the table, hesitating before taking a stroke.  He scraped by with a win and talked some trash that made so little sense it wasn’t even worth repeating. 

Over the course of the evening Neal also loosened his tie significantly more, about a quarter of an inch every hour, until he finally shed his slick suit jacket and slipped the first two buttons of collar of his increasingly rumpled shirt.  He’d run a hand through his hair every time a few strands fell into his wide, smiling eyes.  His exhaustion and the alcohol had settled over him, relaxing his usual crisp, focused appearance into a disheveled, ragged ball of charisma and slow grins.

And by the fourth and last game he only took his eyes off Dean long enough to make a few feeble attempts at playing pool. 

Dean fist-pumped when he sunk the 8-ball, but he could tell Neal barely even noticed what had happened.  The con man’s eyes were trained somewhere between Dean’s mouth and his collarbone. 

Dean had a feeling that if they'd been in NYC instead of rural PA the man would have been all hands hours ago.  And he couldn't decide how he felt about it.  He thanked the universe or whatever for small favors, hating the idea of having to cause a ridiculous scene in the middle of the sleepy bar on a week night.

He remembered that morning, outside Chicago, when he felt what could have been a real attraction between him and this guy.  And then there was the freaking kiss.  He didn't know what he'd been thinking; only that he'd needed Dad out of there as fast as possible.  What better way to get that accomplished?

Neal seemed to have realized that the game was over and he had somehow lost.  Dean took the cue from his friend's hands and said, "You ready to head out?"

Neal smiled and swayed a little, but managed to answer, without stumbling over the words, "Whenever you are."

Dean smiled ruefully at him.  "You put on a pretty good act, but let's see you walk out of here in a straight line.  Without my help.”

“You wanna bet I can’t do it?  B’cause, I totally can.”  Neal’s hand was resting on the table.  If it hadn’t been, Dean would never have bet anything close to a hundred.

Neal exited the establishment just as he had entered it, except this time he was whistling and Dean followed with a curse on his breath and the usual glance over his shoulder.

In the car, Neal leaned his head heavily against the window and murmured, “I’m not going to take your money, Dean.”

“You just want me to know how good you really are?”

The con-man smiled lazily.  “Something like that.” 

Neal was quiet for about a minute after that, and Dean thought maybe he’d conked out.  But out of the blue he spoke, softly, almost reverently, “I love your car by the way.”

Dean glanced at his friend, whose eyes were closed in a drunken half-sleep.  “Yeah, me too.”

“We drove one once when I was little.  From Tulsa to…Dallas maybe.  The seats smelled like cigars,” Neal spoke as if dreaming.  He might not even have realized he was talking out loud.

Dean did not dare reply, wanting to see if Neal would reveal anything else about his past.

As he continued, the hint of a Texas drawl crept into his words.  “We ditched it at a Walmart.  And I didn’t tell Billy, but I was so sad to see it go.  It wasn’t in as great shape as this one.  But we almost never drove cars so nice.”

Dean felt a strange sort of emotion filling his chest and throat, almost choking him.  When Neal didn’t speak again, Dean glanced over at him.

His eyes were open and gazing unfocused out the window, his feet were up on the seat and his elbows were resting, clasped by his hands, on his up-raised knees.  It wasn’t a defensive position.  Dean got the impression that he would always sit like that if social niceties and his chosen profession would allow it.  Neal was just relaxed, probably for the first time in days, maybe weeks.

“What kind of cars did you drive?” Dean asked softly.

Neal turned his head to face Dean.  His movements were languid and his expression was tired, yet his eyes were now clear.  “Some other time, Dean,” he said heavily.

“Yeah,” Dean replied immediately.  “Of course.”

They didn’t speak again, and when Dean parked the Impala outside their room, he looked over to find Neal had fallen asleep for real this time, his cheek leaning against the door, his forehead pressed to the window glass.  His shoulders were slumped, his arms crossed in his lap, hands lying open and loose. 

Dean didn’t want to disturb him, but he thought maybe too long like that and Neal would have one hell of a headache in the morning and probably a neck cramp.  He tugged on Neal’s shirt, then gently shook his shoulder. 

“Nggh,” he groaned, and then looked over at Dean, favoring him with the same salacious smile he’d been serving up all night long.  “Oh, fell ‘sleep, huh?”

“Yeah, it looks like.”  Dean smirked and pulled the keys out of the ignition.  “You gonna need help getting inside, big boy?”

Neal laughed, shaking his head no, and pressed his hands to his face, like he could rearrange his features and erase all traces of the exhaustion he was obviously feeling.  “God,” he said, muffled, “I haven’t been this drunk in a while.  Maybe not since Kate turned 18.”

Dean rolled his eyes.  “You fucking cradle robber.  I mean, I get it.  I do, but Jesus.”

Neal glanced at Dean as he straightened himself.  “You’re not surprised she told me about that?”

“I’d be surprised if she didn’t, dude.  Not with the way you guys planned all that from the beginning.  Which, by the way, was very nice of you.”  He smiled, feeling warm just thinking about Kate wrapped up in the sheets from his bed, soaking in the afternoon glow.

Neal didn’t reply, but a strange expression came over his face, and Dean kept a careful eye on him as they walked together into the hotel room.

As soon as Dean shut the door behind them, Neal spun and made a clumsy but strong grab for him, pressing him roughly against the wall.  The unexpected force surprised a heavy curse from Dean’s lips, but somehow he couldn’t say anything else.  Neal’s proximity left Dean speechless, uncertain of what he wanted to demand the conman do next: get the fuck off him or kiss him until he was as short of breath as he was of words. 

Dean shook his head, not knowing.  So again he kept his mouth shut.

Neal’s forearms braced Dean’s shoulders flat against the wallpaper as he leaned in close.  But Neal didn’t kiss him as Dean was expecting.  Instead, he drew a deep breath across Dean’s neck, in one slow movement up to his ear, where he whispered Dean’s name with a smile, as if he couldn’t quite believe he was there.  And then he said, “I wanted…I’ve been waiting so long.  Ever since Kate came home with you all over her.”

He breathed in deep again and huffed softly, a small, pleased laugh.  “Oh God, Dean, you smell so good.”

Dean was pretty sure he smelled like a combination of his general gunpowdery aroma and lingering cigarette smoke from the bar.  Which he thought wouldn’t really be that appealing, but it didn’t seem worth it to argue.

Dean was beginning to feel overwhelmed by Neal’s enthusiasm, by his words and by his own body’s reactions.  Neal had been waiting that long?  He’d been wanting Dean…like this…for months now? 

Dean had never kept up with anybody who wasn’t family for as long as he had with Neal and Kate.  And sure he wished Kate could come and warm his bed up from time to time, but he couldn’t quite believe what Neal was saying.  After everything, Dean was sure Neal wouldn’t lie, yet he still found he didn’t know if he wanted to shrink away from this intensity or wrap himself in it.

He felt Neal rock his body, ever so slightly, an attempt to get even closer.  And he knew he had to stop before things got out of hand, before he couldn’t think straight.  If he wasn’t sure, then the answer had to be no. 

Dean lifted his hand to Neal’s cheek, his fingers stretching to the strong line of his jaw, and drew those blue eyes up to meet his own.  Neal’s pupils were blown wide and his mouth parted in a slight pant.  Dean felt a powerful desire to kiss that goddamn mouth, annoyed that it didn’t have to work at all to be drop-dead sexy. 

Instead, he made himself speak slowly and calmly, like he was sure as hell of the words that were coming out of his mouth, “Neal, I really don’t think I can do this.  Not tonight.”

Dean wasn’t sure if he should be pleased that Neal didn’t even bother to try and hide the hugely crestfallen expression that broke over his features, or if he should kick himself for causing it in the first place.  He reflexively tried to pull Neal close again, but the man stubbornly braced his hands against the wall and locked his elbows.

“No,” Neal said, resignedly, his tone a step away from the harshness of a thwarted hard on. 

Dean closed his eyes regretfully, hating that he could hear Neal’s disappointment in his voice.  But he felt warm, strong fingers slide across his skin to cradle the back of his neck and he opened them again to meet Neal’s clear stare.

“No, Dean, you’re right.  This isn’t the way.  Not tonight.”  His voice was now calm, and his body held a stillness it hadn’t a moment before, as if he were willing his libido into submission.  But his eyes, they bore into Dean’s and they were fucking electric, like all that energy was swirling around in his head and it was flashing and thundering and lighting up the blue.

“I’m so sorry,” Dean bit out.  “I wish…” he started to say, but then Neal smiled.  It was a bright, dazzling flash of teeth and good feelings and Dean stopped talking.

“Don’t be sorry.”  Neal pulled them both, somewhat unsteadily, away from the wall and towards the bed.  “Let’s just get some sleep.”

They didn’t even bother to take off their clothes before they collapsed side by side on the mattress.  Dean met Neal’s eyes again and was reminded again of the first night, the last time they had slept in the same place.  He took Neal’s hand, feeling that connection as strong as before.

“I know it might take a while,” Neal said, then yawned involuntarily.  He blinked sheepishly at Dean.  “Maybe you shouldn’t get me so drunk next time.”

“Get _you_ drunk?” Dean replied incredulously.  “You were the one who ordered that extra shot.  It’s not my fault.”

Neal smiled and closed his eyes.  “Well, quit being so sexy then.”

“Yeah, I’ll get right on that,” he mumbled, still smiling as he fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Neal woke the next morning feeling uncomfortably rumpled and alone.  He heard the muffled noise of a shower running in the bathroom.

It took him all of thirty seconds to begin worrying about Kate.  The vision of her battered face and bloody limbs had been in his dreams, making his sleep restless, despite Dean’s welcome presence.  Neal could tell by the faint light through the curtained window that it was just after daybreak. 

When Neal wasn’t working he usually enjoyed sleeping in, although apparently he would not be doing so today.  It was a luxury in which he could only so often indulge, like drinking.  At that thought, Neal remembered his unacceptable behavior of the previous night and resolved to apologize to Dean when he came out of the shower.

As if summoned, Dean stepped out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam, his waist wrapped in a thin white towel.

He was all lean muscle, big green eyes and cocky, yet insecure half-smile.  He was something, Neal knew that for sure.

He and Kate had had their flings with a few people in the past couple years, male and female, but he had never felt such an immediate and strong connection to someone before.  Maybe it was because of their similar pasts.  He remembered the look in Dean’s eyes that night, when they both had realized how much they had in common.  He’d seemed so exposed, and Neal had wondered, for the first time in a while, what his own expression looked like.

He thought about his first impression of the kid, that same night in the bar where he’d brokered the half mil with the Novikovs.  He’d looked over, awash in the heady feeling of booze and success, and seen this vision in an over-sized suit.  A surprisingly quick on the up-take vision, who was charmingly hard to surprise and just bored enough to grant him a favor and then follow through on a challenge.

It was never a question of liking Dean Winchester.  Neal immediately liked or disliked most people he met; there was no middle ground with him.  He had _always_ liked Dean and he had come to understand him so quickly that there was no doubt that they would be some kind of friends.  He had left it up to Dean to back off when he and Kate pushed too far, but he still hadn’t yet.

Neal was intensely grateful for the support Dean had offered him the previous night, because again, for the first time in a while, he had needed a comforting arm and he’d been given one. 

Dean had listened to Neal talk through what had happened and what would soon be happening.  Voicing a plan made it real to him, made it solid, and for some reason voicing it to Dean had made it seem right, too.  He could barely believe later how much better he felt.

Now, Neal looked at this kid, with a bone structure to rival his own and that not-as-tough-as-he-thinks attitude, stumbling toward what might be the most honest and sincere relationship either of them had ever had before, and he tried to think of any good reason not to love him.

Neal Caffrey was a careful man when it counted, but he was not a coward and he understood the difference between lying to yourself out of convenience and doing it out of necessity. 

He would not tell himself it was a bad idea to love Dean.  But it was definitely a bad idea to tell Dean about it immediately. 

So Neal just smiled and watched him as he went over to the dresser where he had stowed his things.  Dean glanced at Neal as he rummaged through the clothing.

“Glad to see you’re awake, sunshine,” he said in that roughly affectionate way Neal liked so much.  “Get up, get clean, and we’ll get started.”

Neal blinked and opened his mouth to reply, but Dean glared at him and warned, “And if you try to apologize for last night, I swear, I’ll have you clean every weapon in my arsenal and you won’t get to even fire a gun until sun-up tomorrow.”

Neal suppressed the urge to take this opportunity to say never mind the whole gun-firing deal and invite Dean to just stay all day in bed with him.  But he thought about Kate, in that alley and now in the hospital and reminded himself this was not an unworthy sacrifice.  He was not really compromising anything.  “Yessir,” he intoned with just the right amount of sarcasm and climbed out of bed.

When Neal emerged from the bathroom about twenty minutes later, Dean was dressed and had a handgun disassembled and laid out on a dishtowel on the table. 

Dean watched him as he pawed through his duffel bag and dressed in his most simple and workable clothes, a pair of Dockers and a navy blue polo shirt.  He didn’t bother to fuss with his hair as much as he usually would.  Today it didn’t seem important.

He ran his fingers roughly through the wet strands and sat down opposite Dean, the gun was directly in front of him.

“This is a M1911A1.  It carries a .45 caliber seven round magazine.  The model is the same as standard issue for the Marine Corps until the last decade; they’re supposed to be an easy model for beginners.  This one was manufactured for civilians, you can tell by the nickel plating and the ivory grips.  My father received it is a gift after his military service.  He never said from who, but he gave it to me on my eighteenth birthday.”  Dean’s voice was quiet and patient as he launched into naming all of the disassembled parts and specific functions and levers on the frame, names Neal had heard before, but had never known their place or purpose.

Dean then swung his chair over next to Neal’s and picked up the parts.  His elbows bumped Neal as he showed him how to insert the barrel into the slide and the recoil spring and guide carefully into the top of the weapon, keeping it held down with his thumb.  He showed Neal how to fit the grooves of the slide into the frame and how to set the lever and slide it forward to lock.  He did all this slowly but with a practiced hand.  His knees were touching Neal’s as he “took it down” or disassembled it again, and laid it out for Neal to try.

Neal picked up the slide and barrel with steady fingers.  He decided to just think about this particular weapon as he fumbled painfully to assemble it.  Aesthetically, it was rather beautiful.  The engraving was a lovely scroll pattern and the wear on the grips had yellowed the ivory, but it was plain that it was well cared for and polished often.  Finally, Neal had jerkily put it together, taking about a minute longer than Dean had to explain and demonstrate the entire process.

“Good,” he said with a smile.  “Now do it again.”

Neal assembled and reassembled the 1911 for an hour and a half.  Then he worked on the Taurus 92 and the Glock G21.  As he went through each process again and again, over and over, Dean talked to him about the different models, how they were better or worse for some things rather than others and how one would jam when Sam cleaned it because he used too much lubricant. 

He seemed to carefully avoid telling any specific stories about the weapons in action against ghosts or whatever Dean spent his time killing.  Neal was kind of glad, but he felt slightly ashamed of not wanting to know the particular details of Dean’s life.  He felt like he should want to know everything.  But then he thought it seemed appropriate, since he and Kate were so careful of telling Dean anything that could incriminate them, God forbid their link ever be exploited.

Dean’s eyes lit up when he talked about his brother.  Neal allowed himself to break his focus from the Glock long enough to catch Dean’s expression.  “You taught Sam how to do this didn’t you?” 

Dean’s smile twisted into something a little less happy when he replied.  “Dad and Sammy didn’t really have the patience for each other sometimes.  It was bad enough when Dad was teaching us together.  When he decided Sam was old enough to shoot, he’d already taught me years before that to handle a gun.  He said I should just do it and save him the aggravation.”

Then Dean seemed to realize he’d gone beyond just answering a simple question, and moved into another territory entirely.  He ducked his head and his cheeks turned just a shade shy of blushing, his hands fiddling immediately with one of the discarded firearms.

 _I don’t want to talk about the past anymore_ , Dean had said that night.  And Neal had paid attention.  But the past was something Dean obviously thought about a lot.  His memories of family were important to him, no matter how bittersweet they tasted now.

Neal laid the assembled Glock down on the table and looked straight at his friend.  “Sam looked good, Dean,” Neal said, “When we saw him in Palo Alto.  He looked really happy.  You got the drawing, right?”

“Yeah,” Dean answered grinning at his gun, eyes still downcast.  “Did you get the blonde’s name?”  He finally looked up, curiosity peeking through his embarrassed demeanor.

Neal smirked, “Kate swiped some kid’s access to the campus facebook.  Her name’s Jessica.  She’s in his year.  They met in English Comp, we think.”

Dean’s eyes seemed to gather a more pronounced warmth when talking about his brother, and Neal found himself battling jealousy as he looked into them.  “That’s great,” Dean said roughly, but with a grateful smile.  “Thanks, Neal.  Thanks for doing that.  I meant to mention it in one of the letters, but…”

“Don’t,” Neal waved him off, “We really did it for curiosity’s sake, more than anything.  And we were in the neighborhood.  So, no need to thank us.”

“Yeah, all right,” Dean replied.  “Uh, sorry, we got kinda side-tracked there.”  Dean leaned back for a moment, but then sat straight-backed once again, ready to put his teaching face back on.

But Neal took the opportunity to glance at his watch and whistle low, “Man, we’ve been at this for a while, do you think we can get some food or something?”

Dean immediately perked up at the request and grinned excitedly.  “We’ll get pancakes.  The place I know around here, best pancakes in PA, I swear.”

Neal smiled right back.  “Sounds great.”

“We can go right to the range from there.  I’ll let you figure out how to load a magazine in the car, then you’ll be ready to start shooting,” Dean said rapidly, ending with an anxious smile.  “Right?”

Neal took a steadying breath, thinking he was being stupid.  None of this was as big a deal as he seemed to want to make it out to be.  “Yeah,” he replied.  “I’ll be ready.”

 

When they exited the motel room a few minutes later, Neal was greeted with one beautiful sight.  “God, I love this car,” he said, blowing out a breath of satisfaction as he climbed into the passenger seat.  “You never see these anymore.  Did I tell you how much I love your car, Dean?”

There was a guarded look in Dean’s eyes that had not been there a moment before.  “Yeah, you did,” he replied, revving the engine with a serious look on his face.

Neal’s chest constricted, like he’d been caught at something.  He hated getting caught.  He hated alcohol, too.  “What else did I say?”

Dean shook his head as he pulled out onto the main road.  “I’ll forget about it, if you want me to.  Like it never happened.”

“Dean, how am I supposed to know if I want you to forget it when I don’t know what I told you?”  Neal couldn’t figure out when it was he said anything about the goddamn car or whatever else was making Dean make that face. 

“This doesn’t ever happen to me,” he said stiffly, unable to keep a hold on his frustration.  “I remember last night, Dean.  I lost the game, which by the way doesn’t happen very often either, on the ride back I fell asleep, and then there were my unfortunate actions against the wall…”  Neal trailed off awkwardly and caught Dean’s raised eyebrows.  “What?”

“It wasn’t _that_ unfortunate,” Dean muttered.  “And you weren’t asleep the whole time in the car.  Do you remember saying you wouldn’t take my money?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you didn’t fall asleep right after that.  I thought you had, but then you started talking about the car, then one you rode in when you were young, I guess, from Tulsa to Dallas.  And about cigars and a Walmart…and someone named Billy.”  Dean finished all in a rush and looked quickly across at Neal and then back to the road. 

“Jesus Christ,” Neal whispered and pressed his forehead to the dashboard, thinking this nauseated feeling would have been more appropriate the previous night.  Maybe that would have kept his mouth shut. 

He knew he was feeling the same kind of panic he had to keep bottled when a con was breaking down, when a handle was exposed as a fraud, when everything was spinning out of control.  Usually he could improvise, could roll with it.  Usually he was more than fine, he lived for it.  But this was entirely different.  This was him, his past, his life coming out into the open.

He felt like he’d been partially unraveled.  There was a reason he kept the past quiet, kept it apart.  He didn’t know what he’d been thinking last night.  But as soon as Dean said it, he remembered saying those words.  He thought he remembered it feeling…good.

The dash smelled like melted chocolate instead of cigars and Neal breathed it in, trying to calm down.  He suddenly realized this car was Dean’s childhood. 

Dean had never said it in so many words.  But the way he was around a motel room, so efficient, so habitual, told Neal he’d spent most of his life living in them.  Neal thought of Dean’s story about first helping on the hunt when he was a teenager, not going, helping.  And the car was too old, too well cared for to have been one in a long series.  At least Dean had had a constant, a home. 

Neal closed his eyes.  A home was something Billy had never been able to give him, had never wanted to either.  Maybe that was why Neal hadn’t said so much about his past to anyone in almost a decade.

“Neal?”  Dean’s voice was tentative.

“Yeah?”  He didn’t look up, but he realized the car had stopped moving.

“You still want those pancakes?”

 

They sat across from each other in the tiny diner with the lacy pink curtains and the yellowing countertops.  Neal folded his paper napkin into a crane and smiled at Dean when he was finished.

Neal leaned back in the booth and crossed his arms in front of him casually.  He watched Dean take the origami crane in his hands.  He handled it carefully, running his fingers over the crisp folds.

“You can give it to the girl if you want,” Neal offered.  “It would make her day.”

Dean, apparently ignoring his jibe, replied quietly, “I don’t want you to feel like you have to put on a show for me.  I’m not the biggest sharer in the world either, but I don’t want you to think that you have to spare me…your feelings, or whatever, just to make things easier.”

“Dean,” Neal couldn’t quite pull off the smile as he said, “I put on a show for everyone.”

“Well, you don’t have to do it for me.  I don’t want you to.”

They were both quiet for a few minutes.  Dean seemed to be lost in thought and refused to look at him.  And Neal was busy trying to figure out what it was that Dean wanted.  Certainly, they were both aware that Neal was less than pleased with his actions and his circumstances lately, but did Dean really want him to wallow?  What would be the point?

The waitress came back about five relatively silent minutes later with two plates of pancakes piled high and sides of eggs and bacon.  Everything looked delicious right down to the whipped cream topping and the orange slices displayed like a fan.  She beamed when Neal said, “Everything looks great,” because Dean didn’t seem to want to speak for him again. 

Dean sliced into his own breakfast with gusto that bordered on violent.  His focus was intense and he didn’t look up when he started speaking.  “Sam and Dad were fighting about school for months behind my back.  All I had were two moody, closed-mouthed, passive aggressive bastards in extremely close quarters from the day Sam took the GED until his eighteenth birthday.  And I had no fucking idea why.” 

Dean finally looked up into his eyes and said, “I get that what just happened in the car was intense and you probably just want to pretend it didn’t happen.  And that’s fine.  But if you’re upset, Neal, don’t hide it from me.” 

Neal didn’t understand quite what Dean was getting at for a moment.  Sure he wanted to pretend it didn’t happen, so why push the issue?  “Dean,” he said, suddenly realizing.  “Do you think I’m upset _with you_?”

Dean jerked back and stared at Neal as if it were obvious.  “Aren’t you?”

“Why would I be?  You didn’t beat that information out of me.  And I’m actually glad you mentioned it, I remember telling you now.  It’s better to have that than not know I ever said anything about it.  And…I’m sorry about in the car.  It took me by surprise, I guess.  I don’t talk about back then much…at all, really.”  Neal frowned at the difficulty he was having with even talking about talking about the past.  It was ridiculous and, frankly, stupid.

“And yeah, it’s dangerous to spread around your past when you’re in my line of work.  But I guess I went a little overboard, trying to forget.”  Neal picked up a piece of bacon and took a bite.

Dean quirked a curious eyebrow, asking, “So, who knows?”

“That story about that old Impala?  Or my real origins?”  Neal asked, keeping his voice light, despite the difficulty.

“Both, I guess.  If you don’t mind my asking.”  Dean’s pancakes were partially demolished, but he stopped to pour another half cup of maple syrup over them.

Neal supposed he didn’t mind, or he was trying not to anyway.  It seemed silly now to be so worried about these small stories about Texas and his Uncle Billy.  It was what happened later that could get him into real trouble, him and some other people he’d prefer not to see trouble come down on.  But Neal couldn’t think of a reason Dean would go looking beyond what Neal told him.  And not a lot of people would be able to put together all the pieces anyway.

“Besides you, no one knows about how I felt about that car.  Billy thought it was a piece of shit.  Told me himself.  And only one person knows the whole story about me,” Neal swallowed and looked back down at his food.  “And he ai-isn’t talking.”

He raised his eyes to see Dean smile, finally.  “What?”  Neal asked suspiciously.

“Well, though I am intrigued by your mysterious past and vague answers to my questions, I think it’s freakin adorable when your accent slips.”  Dean looked entirely too pleased with himself.

“When my _what_ does what, now?”  Neal worked his jaw, fighting the urge to glower.  His accent had _not_ fucking slipped.  He was a genius at accents and languages too, for that matter.  He swore at Dean in Japanese.

Dean laughed, obviously getting the idea, if not the meaning.  “No need to get your panties in a twist.  I’ve spent some time in Texas too, son.  It’s not hard to pick out when you hear it, and it’s easy to pick up when you’re down there.”

“Shut up, Dean,” Neal said before draining his cup and sliding his plate away.

“You ready to shoot something now?”  The kid asked with his eyebrows reaching for the sky.

Neal just smiled slyly and said he had to go to the bathroom before they left.  When Dean got up to pay, Neal brushed past him, winking as he did so and privately smiling at Dean’s barely concealed flustered look.  When he walked out of the bathroom, he saw Dean through the windows, searching desperately in the front seat of his car.

Neal took a twenty out of a worn brown leather wallet he just happened to have in his pocket and paid the waitress with a grand smile.  He walked out the door, belling chiming behind him, and into the warm sunshine and cool breeze of a spring afternoon. 

It felt weird to be away from the city, away from the pedestrian crowds and cacophony of traffic.  A certain cosmopolitan culture was necessary for most of Neal’s work and so he rarely ventured out into the country, or even the suburbs, of whichever metropolis he and Kate were working. 

The comparably empty roads and expansive strip malls reminded him of travelling with Billy, it was no wonder he’d told Dean even a little bit about it.  Those days had been running through his mind enough since he’d taken that turnpike exit into the little town.  The roads between Dallas and Houston, Austin and San Antonio, were on repeat, Billy’s classic rock radio playing the in the background.

He tossed Dean his wallet and asked smugly, “Looking for something?”

Dean shoved the wallet into his back pocket and grumbled, “Just my gun.”

“So I can shoot something, right?”

“Only if you teach me to pick pockets like a champion.”  He threw the car in drive and Neal had to hold on to the seat as they peeled out.

“Not enough population out here,” Neal mimicked Dean’s tone from over the phone.  “Can’t pick a pocket if you don’t have a crowd to disappear into.  Unless you’re, you know, a master like me.”

Dean smirked, “Yeah, yeah,” and leaned over, keeping his eyes and the car expertly on the road, to open the glove compartment.  He pulled out what Neal now knew to be an empty magazine and a box of bullets.  He tossed them onto Neal’s lap saying, “See if you can’t figure that out, Mr. Smart-guy.”

Infuriatingly, Neal could not figure it out.  He knew that the little silver bullets were supposed to go inside the black metal case, he knew which direction in which they should go, and he knew there was a pressure trick to it.  It wasn’t hard to grasp how it worked; it was really hard to get the fuckers inside the clip.  For some reason, his usually adept fingers could not push the way they needed to.

Dean smiled like a bastard the entire way to the range.

Neal pushed them at him in disgust when they finally parked in a muddy yard at the end of a long gravel road and positioned at the entrance to a long gravel driveway.  The sign at the side of the path read “Private Property.”

“You know a range, huh?”  Neal asked, deadpan.

Dean’s expression was not entirely comfortable, but he didn’t really look that guilty.  “Yeah, I know this place.  I also know that the owner lives in Key West eight months out of the year and rarely comes to this side of his acreage when he is on the continental United States.”

Neal cracked a smile and rolled a bullet across his knuckles like a coin.  “Well, that’s all right then,” he said, always willing to take advantage of the idle rich.

They walked together down the path, illuminated by intermittent sunlight through the tall pines and oaks that lined the way and surrounded the outdoor range.  The range itself was at least 600 yards long at its furthest point.  But Dean led them to a stand across from a target that was more like 50 yards away.

Dean pulled all their gear out of his black duffel as they talked through range and gun safety, for instances when Neal might be shooting at a populated range or as part of a job.  He talked about stance, about how to load the weapons, hold them properly, and aim.  And then they shot at least a box of bullets into the target.

It was the recoil that got to Neal the most.  He had a steady hand, and he knew with practice it wouldn't be so wrenching, but the way the gun snapped back in his hand made him think about where that bullet was going, what it could do.

Dean was patient.  He saw Neal's discomfort, and refrained from commenting; only explaining over and over again how he could improve his hold, his aim, and the damned recoil.  He corrected Neal with sure, impersonal hands, prompting him to wonder what a young Sam Winchester thought about his brother, the teacher.

It was a welcome distraction from...other things. 

Neal had been raised around guns, but had been kept away from them as a kid and had kept himself away from them as a teenager.  Uncle Billy had never gone into a job without a gun in his waistband or boot and it was when the hints and observations that the kid should soon be learning to shoot got real frequent that he finally decided to leave. 

Neal had never wanted to need a gun.  He had never wanted to be Billy's kind of thief.  He'd rather go straight than steal from people who couldn't make it back.  It didn't matter how much of a sucker or how much of an asshole a man was; Neal would rather turn himself in than ruin families for a living.

So, he ran away.  And gave himself a new name and a new profession and an all new set of skills.  He did all that for himself, by himself, and he didn't need a fucking gun to do it.  But Neal knew, the bigger the scores got, the more success they had, the greater the danger.  So, now he had a gun in his hand and Dean was looking at him with worried eyes.

"You okay, man?"  Dean asked.

"Tell me about your dad, Dean."  Neal said, taking the empty clip from the glock and setting both down.

Dean seemed to realize this action meant Neal was done for the day, so he began to pack up.  The sun was low in the sky, hovering half-over the tall pines that surrounded the range.  He started talking as he piled the boxes of bullets and the weapons back into his duffel bag. 

"My dad is a Marine," Dean said simply.  "He was a Corporal and a rifleman, and received a Purple Heart and Bronze Star for his service in Vietnam.  He went home, got a job as a mechanic, married a beautiful woman, and had two sons.  Then...something happened."

Dean and Neal walked together down the driveway, back to Dean's car.  Neal watched Dean grapple with how much to tell him. 

Neal knew there were family secrets, knew Dean wouldn't divulge everything.  That was fine with him.  He'd asked an open ended question and was already planning not to tell Dean as much about his own past as he now knew about his friend's.

Dean continued, rubbing the back of his neck and looking down at his feet as he spoke, "My mother died when I was four. Sam was just a baby. After that, Dad started fighting a different war. He always used to tell us, you never stop being a marine. And I guess, when things got hard, when they got...never mind," Dean shook his head, meeting Neal's eyes finally. And Neal tried to convey that he got it, that he didn't need to know everything. "Dad just...fell back on what he knew. And raised us the way he thought he should. To keep us safe."

Neal was about to speak, when Dean spoke up again, right as they reached the Impala.  "He's also a regular asshole.  Other hunters won't work with him.  He gets information out of people with his fists more often than a con, though not by much, I'd guess.  He doesn't take bullshit from people, and he doesn't take lip from his sons...well, not me anyway.  Sammy gets away with murder, or did, all the time."

Neal smiled and opened the car door as Dean threw the duffel in the arsenal he liked to call a trunk.  He launched into his story as soon as they were both in the car and the engine was humming.  "My Uncle Billy was a lot like your dad.  He was in the service too, but I don't know anything about it.  He never talked about the past, ever.  After we left a town, he'd only ever bring it up again if he wanted to teach me something, to remember a lesson I learned."

Dean was glancing over at Neal every once in a while as he drove down the gravel road, back towards civilization.  Neal felt as though he needed to speak faster, to get this out before they returned to the real world, and he'd clam up again, because you're _never_ supposed to talk about the past.

"I know he wasn't my dad.  He'd say that all the time, and we looked nothing alike.  And I know he wasn't really my uncle, though he'd insist I call him that, unless the con required that I didn't.  He was a smart man, he taught me more than he knew, more than I realized later.  He called himself a grifter, but the circles he ran in called him a two-bit thief and, if they were being nice, a con-man.  He worked mostly in Texas, but sometimes out in Kansas or Oklahoma.  He got saddled with me when a bank job he helped pull for some quick cash went bad, ended in gunfire.  The guy Billy had been hooked up with for the job died during the getaway, gut-shot.  It was only after he finished screaming that Billy heard a kid crying in the back seat.  He assumed that the bastard was my father, but by then he couldn't ask my name, or so he said."

They were at a stop-light and Dean was openly staring at Neal now.  Neal met his eyes and said, "He never told me why he bothered to keep me around.  But he'd always say he looked into it, asked about missing persons.  No one was looking for a child my age or description, he said.  I think Billy was raised in an orphanage.  Maybe that was why he didn't put me in one."

An angry horn blared behind them and Dean realized the light had turned green.  Neal was done talking, but he steeled himself for Dean’s response, knowing he would be asked to elaborate, deciding that he didn’t want to hide the truth. 

“Jesus,” Dean murmured, then hesitated before asking.  “So what is your real name?”

Neal knew this would be his question.  It didn’t matter that Neal had never told anyone this story in precisely this way.  He’d never hinted at it to Kate.  Not even Mozzie knew the answer to that question and he had been more of a friend and mentor to Neal Caffrey than anyone. 

But family was important to Dean, names were important.  Neal used to think they were too and he’d been angry about it for so long. 

He looked out the window, at the passing strip malls and side streets, fiddling with the ash tray in the door and speaking as flatly as he could.  “If I ever told Billy my name, he never called me by it.  He said he didn’t know, but I always wondered.  Toddlers know their own names, right?  I’ve met kids that young before that will tell you their name before you even ask.  When you’re little it’s easier to change things like that and have it stick.  Billy would tell me in the morning what my name was for the day.  It made it easier for him to keep me on story if things went wrong.  Usually, if we weren’t running a con and it didn’t matter, he would just call me Kid or Boy.  Funnily enough, he called me Boy more often as I got older, like it would stop me from growing old enough to leave.”

Despite his view out the window, Neal was surprised when Dean pulled in someplace other than the motel.  He recognized the bar they’d been to the previous night.  He was pleased he’d been able to keep it mostly together while being so thoroughly intoxicated, any practice was good practice.  But he still felt bad about how the rest of the evening went, even though Dean seemed fine with it.  More than fine, actually.  Still, Neal decided he was not very interested in getting similarly drunk this evening. 

Dean turned to Neal with a searching expression on his face.  “We can eat dinner here, if you don’t mind.  You’re hungry, right?”

Neal smiled at Dean’s sudden apprehension about his particular culinary desires, when earlier that day he’d been all about making decisions and giving orders.  “Yeah, I’m hungry,” he replied.  “Here is fine.  I’m fine too, by the way.  You don’t have to worry.”

Dean gave him a look that probably was meant to say, “Don’t I?” and got out of the car. 

The rapidly waning light had faded into grey-tinged dusk and Dean looked older in it, he looked burdened.  Neal wanted to tell the kid to stop making everyone else’s problems his own.  To forget his Dad and his brother and all their secrets, to leave Neal’s past buried where it belonged, to make his life as free of worry and tragedy as it deserved to be. 

Neal had to stop in his tracks, made breathless by the effort of suppressing the urge to voice the feelings he’d unearthed in himself that morning. 

But Neal knew that Dean couldn’t hear it.  For Dean, love was an obligation.  And when faced with another heart to hold onto, another life to safeguard, Dean might just run and Neal wouldn’t risk that.

Dean turned, looking back at Neal frozen in the act of closing the passenger side door.  “What?”  He asked looking around, as if for some mysterious threat, and then turning red when he realized who it was Neal was staring at. 

Neal shook his head. If Dean ran, Neal would never get the chance to kiss that cocky smirk right off his face. “Nothing,” he answered quietly and started walking again.

They ate terrible bar food and talked about Dean’s cursory interest in college basketball, liking the game but being unable to follow it consistently.  Neal revealed he once had an intimate understanding of the rules, players, and betting statistics of most professional and collegiate sports, yet lately preferred to pretend he didn’t know the first thing about it to avoid awkward questions.

“So you don’t just hustle pool, then?” Dean asked while dragging a french fry through his ludicrously sized pile of ketchup.

“You already know the answer to that one,” Neal replied, thinking of his victorious sober-walk from the previous night, while draining his first and only beer of the evening.  “Let’s just say, I always hustle for fun.  But, I only make money on it when I have to.”

Dean scoffed and got up with the excuse of getting them more drinks, despite Neal’s assurances that he didn’t need another.

Neal turned his attention to the TV mounted on the wall across the bar, but the game had gone to commercial and all he saw were ads for cars and light beer.  He normally stayed away from television, having work and Kate to keep his life sufficiently busy.  Obviously, it helped in some cases to be well versed in popular culture, but on their last string of jobs they’d fallen in with people who didn’t care much either way.

As he thought of Kate in her hospital bed, Neal concealed a shudder by clearing his throat and wished, fleetingly, he hadn’t finished his beer.  He also refrained from leaning an elbow on the table and holding his forehead in his hand.  He suddenly felt drained, as if keeping that expulsion of discomfort and worry suppressed had taken away all his strength.

Dean seemed to be having an extended conversation with the bartender, and Neal instantly regretted not noticing earlier, so he could read the two men’s lips.  When he returned, Dean held two full to the brim shot glasses in his hands and a strange little frown on his face. 

"Here drink this, then we're leaving."  Dean shoved one of the shot glasses at him and drank his own in one gulp followed by a short hiss through his teeth.

“I thought I said I wasn’t going to drink anymore,” Neal replied, with no intention of sticking to his word.

Dean huffed, grumpily, “I already paid for it, and we can leave right after, I swear.”

Neal looked at it, surprised to see clear liquid instead of the whiskey of last night.  "What'd you bring me this time?"

Dean smiled, dangerously, and said, "Tequila."

“What, no lime?”  When Dean responded only by raising his eyebrows, in an obvious “hurry up” motion, Neal took the shot hastily, and smacked his lips together, sucking the lingering alcohol from his taste buds.  "Why are we leaving so soon?"

Dean looked back at the bartender and grunted, "We're not fooling anybody around here.  And you and I have some stuff to talk about.  Also," he added, looking hard at Neal, "You look like absolute shit.  For you anyway."

"Thanks," Neal said dryly.

 

 Neal was pleasantly buzzed by the time they got back to the motel.  He had to admit, the place was beginning to grow on him.  It still smelled of gun oil from the morning and the intermingling of Neal’s possessions with Dean’s made him feel, a little absurdly, that the place was somehow theirs.

 Dean threw his keys on the table and shrugged off his amazing brown leather jacket as Neal flopped face-up at the foot of the bed, staring at the popcorn ceiling.

 “So, who is Neal Caffrey?”  Dean asked, point blank.

And Neal felt, seeing as his eyes were still fixed on the plain white surface, that it was some kind of existential disembodied voice that was really asking.

Dean came around to sit at the head of the bed, and Neal turned his head to face him.

“That’s a complicated question, Dean.”  Neal said seriously.  “I could answer so many different ways.  You wouldn’t know the truth from a lie.”

Dean cocked his head.  “I know you wouldn’t be here if you were just interested in feeding me lies.”

“I could just be interested in giving you enough so you’ll teach me what I want to know.”  Neal countered.

“But you don’t really want to know at all,” Dean snorted gruffly.  “It’s obvious that you hate it.”

“Why are you so certain I’m telling you the truth?  That was you see is really what you get?”

Dean shrugged, clearly not buying Neal’s devil’s advocate routine.  “I’d rather believe the fiction at this point.  It all seems too pointless otherwise.  You could have found a billion better ways to learn to shoot if you had to.  Fucking with me is downright malicious, and if I remember correctly, you said you weren’t like that.”

Neal said nothing, coming to the realization that not only did Dean have him pegged, but there was almost no way he could get out of this now and not feel like complete shit.

“Look, man,” Dean sighed.  “I just want to know who I’m involved with here.”

Neal turned onto his side, fully facing those uncertain green eyes.  “Are you really involved, Dean?” 

“I…” he looked away, pulling his knees up and propping up his elbows.  But just a second later he looked right back again, as if he’d had to make sure he could summon the courage.  “Yes,” Dean said firmly.  “I am involved with you.  As much as I am with Kate…more.”

Neal grinned and Dean’s mouth twisted in a not-quite smile in response.  Neal thought he could deal with dragging Dean by his heels into this relationship, if only he could get Dean to admit it was what he wanted every once in a while.

“So,” Dean prompted.  “Who is Neal Caffrey?”

“The name?”  Neal began with a question, but didn’t bother waiting for Dean to answer.  “It’s…er, it was,” he corrected, looking away, “as meaningless as any other handle I’ve ever fed to a mark.  The FBI can’t find anything on me before 1998 because there really isn’t anything.  Because of my…unusual upbringing, I didn’t have to come up with a _new_ identity.  I just created one.  Neal Caffrey didn’t exist until I made him exist, until I put him into the business of international art theft.  He just sprung into the world fully formed and ready to lift priceless bracelets off wealthy Italian dowagers’ unsuspecting wrists.  I’m sure it annoys the hell out of Peter.”

Dean chuckled but didn’t let Neal distract him for long.  “So never mind the name then.  Who are _you_?”

“It’s a little sad actually,” Neal sighed, “But there’s no way around it.  I _am_ Neal Caffrey.  Maybe it started out as a con when I was still a kid.  Originally, I thought I’d use it for a few years then scrap it like all the old ones.  But then I met people, people who weren’t friends of Billy’s or marks like all the rest.  I had associates, business partners, friends.  I met Kate and Alex and I couldn’t be anybody else.  To them, I was Neal and no one else.”

Neal kicked off his shoes and quirked his lips when he saw Dean doing the same.  He sat up, cross-legged at the foot of the bed and turned an inquiring eye to his friend.  “So what about you, Dean?  Do you always ask your friends questions about their fundamental existence?  Or do you save that just for people you’re ‘involved’ with?”

“I’ve only ever been involved with you, Neal.”  Dean’s expression was serious and Neal felt a little bad for the jab.  “And to be honest, this whole deal is kind of freaking me out.”

“The fact that I have no name?”  Neal asked, puzzled.  He had one now, and really didn’t get the difference.

“No!”  Dean burst out in his gruff, frustrated tone.  “The whole…involved deal.  The you, me, and Kate deal.  And not just the sex,” he said, apparently having seen Neal was about to interject.  “The entire freaking…look,” Dean stopped, and tried a different approach. 

“I have never been _with_ anyone as long as I’ve been with you guys.  Or whatever it is we’re doing.  I don’t have long term friends who aren’t at least twenty years older than me, or my fucking brother.  I’ve just…warmed up to the idea that this is going to be a thing that might last a long time.  And I…”

He trailed off and ran a shaky hand across his face.  Neal remembered this feeling he was seeing in Dean.  This staggering amazement that relationships could last longer than more than a few weeks, that people would want to see you again because their life hadn’t been ruined right after you left town.  He hoped Dean could see understanding in his face.

Dean finally seemed to find the words.  “I keep thinking about what you said, that you’ve been waiting…been wanting me this whole time….And until now, I wasn’t thinking about it that way…I don’t know…I…want it to be good.  I just don’t want to fuck it up.”

This was not the way Neal had wanted to go about wooing Dean Winchester and he was kicking himself for letting his libido run his mouth the night before.  “You need to forget what I said, Dean,” he replied seriously.  “I shouldn’t have put that pressure on you.  This isn’t just about what I want.  And I don’t expect you to do anything you don’t want to, just because you think I want it, or because of how long I’ve wanted it.”

The look on Dean’s face was border-line heart-breaking, like he’d been kicked one too many times for coming up short.  He didn’t say anything, but his eyes held doubt.

“You don’t believe me?”  Neal said.  “My hand to God, Dean, even if you never want to fuck me, I would still want you in my life.  If all you want to do is screw my girlfriend on the side, and you can’t even stand the thought of me watching, I’ll just wait in the bathroom and ‘rub one out’ as you so eloquently put it last time.  I would still want you here, and I know Kate would still want you.”

Those green eyes were wide as saucers as Dean’s mind seemed to be catching up with all the imagery behind Neal’s words.  “I wouldn’t,” he replied hoarsely, “make you jerk off in the bathroom.”

Now, Neal let himself smile, toothy and pleased as all get out.  “Oh, so you’ll let me sit in the corner then?”

Dean choked on a laugh.  “Yeah, something like that.”

Suddenly, Neal had an idea.  “Would you,” he said, “let me do it right now?”

“What?”  Dean replied incredulously, “you want to…do that… _now_?”

Neal smiled again, this time leisurely and enticing.  “Well, I hope we’re just about finished with our therapy session.  And from what you said earlier, I know you’re not as reluctant as you seemed to be last night.  So,” he spoke slowly, to make sure Dean was following, “Yeah.  I want.  To touch myself.  Until I come.  Right now.  For you.”  He raised his eyebrows and met Dean’s gaze.  “Game?”

Dean looked not just a little startled, but he rose to the occasion and offered up a blasé smirk.  “Sure.  If that’s what you want.”

Neal took his cock out, sliding his pants and underwear out from under him and tossing them to the floor.  He didn’t bother removing the rest of his clothes.  “Do you mind if I talk it out?  I used to do it for Kate a long time ago, now it’s kind of, I dunno, a thing.”

Dean shrugged and answered, “Whatever floats your boat, dude.”  But his expression told a different story.  He took deep steady breaths; Neal could see the rise and fall of his chest, but the rest of him was very still, and his eyes were very wide.  It was as though the idea that this was really going to happen had snuck up on him.  But Dean kept those wide eyes on Neal and they didn’t waver.  He was at least intrigued, and, if Neal could read him right, already a little turned on.

Neal began to speak before he started stroking himself.  He liked to get into a rhythm, into a mindset, and take himself there, the way he had with Kate when they hadn’t yet made love.  “When Kate came home from Pittsburgh, from seeing you, I think I went a little nuts.  Jealousy isn’t the right word for it.  When you were talking to me about it on the phone, you were right.  I was so turned on I couldn’t do anything until I jerked off in the shower.”

Now, he started to move his palm up and down his half-hard cock, slow and sure, and his words, he knew, would soon take on a more stream of consciousness kind of tone.  He was already going in a non-linear fashion, and he was actually a little concerned he wouldn’t find his way back to the point he had originally set out to make.  But that’s a risk you take when you decide you’re going to have relationship-changing conversation in the middle of a masturbatory exercise in full view of the best looking man you’ve had in your bed since you were a teenager.

“So, it wasn’t like I didn’t want you to fuck her.  It was all I thought about all day.  It was what I thought about in bed.  I think I dreamed of you inside her.”  Neal was extremely hard now, the muscles in his ass and abdomen tightening when he saw Dean squirm and not be able to tear his eyes away.

“When she came home, she smelled like you.  And all I could think was that you must smell like her and she’d been all over you and you’d been all over her…”  Neal paused and closed his eyes, groaning out the next words, “She smelled like gunpowder and tasted salty, like your kiss.  And I thought, if you were on her, then that made you hers.”  He moved his hand faster now, and he knew it wasn’t going to take long.  Just the thought of Dean there, watching, was sending him fast over the edge.  

“ And because she was mine, if I made her mine again right then and there, then you would be…” here it came, he opened his eyes and stared into Dean’s rapt face as he came all over his hand and thigh.  “Mine too,” he finished, panting.  “I wanted to make you mine too.”

Dean’s hands were bunched in the fabric of the comforter, his limbs tense with arousal.  Neal remembered the expression on Dean’s face from Chicago, when they had stared at each other after the kid had barreled him with that kiss.  It was surprised and unsure and wondrous all at the same time and Neal loved it, but he wanted it gone.  He wanted to see those eyes blissfully heavy-lidded, that mouth open, panting, ready to grin slow and shamelessly.

He leaned forward and fell to his hands and knees, clambering across the space between them.  Dean’s knees were propped up, his back against the headboard.  Dean opened his mouth to speak, but Neal put a come-slick finger to his lips.

“Will you let me, Dean?”  He whispered.  “Let me make you mine too?”

Something in Dean’s eyes flickered in response, and Neal would have sworn to judge, jury, and God himself that the green grew darker, the flecks of gold and brown more pronounced as Dean let his mouth fall open and took Neal’s index finger in his teeth.

Dean closed his lips around that finger and sucked gently, pulling the come from his skin, swallowing visibly, and Neal just about lost all control of his limbs.  He fell forward and Dean’s knees spread for him, as Dean pulled him up and close.  His hands were fast in Dean’s short, soft hair.  Neal bent his head forward and their lips met for the first time in a kiss not driven by fear or circumstance, but by real attraction, sheer fucking want.

It was hot and wet and incredibly good.  Neal could taste his own come in Dean’s mouth and his still-sensitive cock gave a jerk against Dean’s thigh.

“I’m going to take that as a yes,” Neal murmured against Dean’s lips and felt him smile in response.  Dean splayed his fingers across the back of Neal’s neck and pulled him closer by the hip with his other hand.  He wasn’t holding back, but his actions were deliberate, he was thinking too much about it.

Suddenly, Neal realized something.  “Your clothes are still on,” he said stupidly.

Dean broke the kiss with a chuckle.  “Your shirt is still on,” he spoke low, lips close to Neal’s ear.  Neal already knew he loved Dean’s sexy bedroom voice, he’d heard it before over the phone.

“Well, let’s see what we can do about this clothing situation.”

Dean pulled the polo over Neal’s head and once his own hands were free he focused his attention on the button and fly of Dean’s jeans.  Dean was hard, his erection tenting his blue-striped boxers.  He stripped the pants and boxers from Dean’s legs and threw them across the room with great efficiency.  Dean groaned and hissed when Neal’s quick fingers grazed across his now bare flesh.

Dean couldn’t seem to get enough of kissing Neal.  His too calculated movements were chased away by his rapidly hardening cock and he drew his hands up and down Neal’s body as if he were a blind man, seeing by touch alone.

Dean’s cock was straining between them, brushing Neal’s thigh as he pushed closer and bumping against his sweat-coated stomach.

“Let me take care of that,” Neal crooned to the corner of Dean’s mouth, only half-realizing he was letting lust run his mouth again, making him sound crazed and wanton.  He pressed a hand to Dean’s inner thigh and cupped his face with the other, fingers curling around the curve of his jaw.  “Let me suck you off, Dean,” he murmured, throatily.  “I’m really really good at it, I promise.”

Dean’s pupils were large and dark, unfocused as he replied breathlessly, “Yeah, yeah.  That would be good.”

Neal trailed his lips down Dean’s body and slid his palm from his thigh to his ass.  Dean pressed himself hard against the headboard and Neal crouched again on his hands and knees to press his lips against Dean’s body, climbing steadily down.  He loved this feeling; it felt like prayer, like worship. 

He let his tongue get tangled in wiry, curling public hair before he came all the way down to Dean’s cock.  Neal’s lips closed around the tip, taking the shaft deep into his throat, and his skin began to grow hot when he heard the first of Dean’s moans as he worked his mouth steadily. 

Neal’s fingers skimmed over the soft flesh at the base of Dean’s cock, moving with the rhythm of his mouth and tongue.  He tasted new somehow, like a first-time.  Logically, Neal knew that shouldn’t have a particular taste, he also knew that someone had probably had their mouth on Dean’s cock before, but Dean’s gasps sounded to him like a revelation, like the boy was finding God. 

“Neal,” Dean breathed, fisting his hands in Neal’s hair. 

Maybe Neal was the one with a new religion, all he could think of was making Dean sound like that forever, making Dean say his name like that again and again.  He moaned and the vibration if it sent Dean careening toward climax.

 “Sh-it, Neal.  Fuck.”  And he jerked, groaning loudly, wordlessly, his whole body shuddering with pleasure.  Neal swallowed most of the come, but pulled away fast and spat some into his hand.  He could barely think he was so turned on.  His cock was hard again and he knew what he wanted.

He climbed up Dean’s boneless limbs and pressed his face against Dean’s, cheek to cheek, he whispered madly, “Dean, touch me, I need…” He trailed off but grasped Dean’s hand in his own, spreading the come and saliva across it.

Dean made a low humming noise and responded, moving his hand to grasp Neal’s cock, sliding it up and down the tender flesh.  Neal whimpered in response and wrapped his legs around Dean’s, but Dean’s lips formed a shushing sound and he kissed Neal’s mouth, licking his own come away.  He trailed the kiss down Neal’s jaw and neck, when he stretched back, rocking his body into Dean’s hand.

Neal pressed his mouth to Dean’s collarbone, wrapping his arms around his neck, and his final, climactic shout was muffled and hushed and followed closely by a long, sensuous kiss.

When they broke apart Dean’s face was perfect, heavy-lidded, green eyes dark, glazed with pleasure and fatigue, lips red and swollen, mouth parted, infinitely relaxed.  Neal smiled slowly, feeling the same blissful languor.  “So pretty,” he intoned, always finding the aesthetics in every situation, though usually he was more eloquent about it.  “Just what I wanted.”

They drowsed for a while, tangled in each other limbs.  But soon roused each other enough to stumble, grinning stupidly, to the shower.  They rinsed the sweat and come from their bodies while Dean murmured things like, “I guess you weren’t lying about being good,” and “Seriously, man, how’d you get so good at that?”  And Neal just smiled and said he’d been around the block a few times.

When it was obvious Dean wasn’t going to take just that as an answer, he replied, “I’ll tell you about him another time.”

They climbed into the bed together, talking softly about whether or not the neighbors had heard them and if they were doing a good job at making sure Neal was laying low.  The consensus was a resounding yes and a probable no.  The conversation moved to who would be the big spoon in their sleeping scenario; the night before they’d just been facing each other.  And this apparently was not appealing to Dean due to an outrageous claim of morning breath.

The last thing Neal remembered saying was, “Shut up, Dean.  I know you’re lying.”

And the last thing he remembered hearing was Dean mumbling, “Really, it was horrible.”

They fell asleep with their foreheads touching and their legs intertwined anyway.


End file.
